Skyfall Deliverance
by scratchienails
Summary: RevYu. KHR AU. Who would win: the world's largest criminal organization with a technological empire dominating over four continents, a rebel faction that abandoned the Code and established a Family of near unparalleled raw power, or a runaway experiment turned rogue vigilante with a can of hair spray and a blood-thirsty vendetta?


**Warnings:**  
 **While the first chapter is very tame, this story will include graphic depictions of violence against pretty much all featured characters. Female characters are not excluded from this. Likewise, everyone is going to be way more violent and dangerous than their canon counterparts. Also, this story will feature assault of all kinds, kids being tortured and brainwashed, human experimentation, vulgar language and behavior, and a general absence of morals. If any of this makes you uncomfortable, hit the back button. Also, this is really gay and includes some arguably steamy scenes.**

 **Also, characters will be using Dying-will Flames, which are the basis of a magic system. There are seven different types of flames, each with unique abilities and properties: Sky, Cloud, Mist, Rain, Storm, Sun, and Lightning. Dying-will Flames are the manifestation of someone's will to live/desperation/determination. These Flames are used to fight and power weapons and machines, and can open Boxes that release Box Animals, which use the user's flames to assist in battle. Mafia Families in KHR have Guardians associated with each Flame type, with the leader using Sky flames and the others dedicated to the leader's protection and fighting for the family.**

 **Now, let's have fun!**

* * *

 **00:46:32, June 2, 20X9**

 **Designation: Bessho Ema, aka GHOST GIRL**

 **Affiliation: N/A**

 **Occupation: Mercenary**

 **Flame Type: Mist**

The cobbled streets are washed grey with thick, heavy fog. The moisture clings uncomfortably to her skin, mixing with sweat and running in rivulets down her face. Tucking a damp lock of lavender hair behind her ear, Ema slouches against the brick wall behind her and tries not to smell her own sweat. It's unusually hot for a summer night in Naples, and the humidity is so high she can taste moisture on her tongue with every breath.

Her clothes stick awkwardly to her skin, but Ema doesn't dare move more than necessary to fix them. She may be well hidden, settled on the roof of an unassuming apartment building, but the less Flames she has to waste on hiding her presence, the better. She has already poured more of her Flames and energy than advisable into opening eight Boxes, releasing eight indigo fireflies into the night air. Her little will-o-wisps are already spread throughout the streets, cloaked in obscuring Mist Flames. So long as she maintains the illusion, they will go unseen.

And Ema desperately needs them to go unseen.

Down below, on the streets, white-coated men are moving in precise patrols, encircling the neighborhood and closing in their unfortunate prey. It's an immense operation, justified only by the reputation and abilities of their target: one of the seven top hitmen in the world. Ema has no intentions of being caught in their net too, but it still grates on her pride to be cowering in a corner while they claim the prize. Logically, she knows there's little she can do now, not with Hanoi thugs overwhelming the city streets, besides gather what little intel she can.

Through her Box Animals, she watches the patrols pick up speed, new urgency spreading through the ranks. Flames are starting to fly, fires of all colors bursting forth across the neighborhood, but for the most part they're weak, amateurish. But there are exceptions, and those make Ema's blood run cold. Hanoi's upper echelon has arrived, and among them is a tall man with hair that matches the hazy fire rising from his rings: Faust, the Second Hanoi Mist Guardian.

Cursing, Ema pulls her will-o-wisps back from that particular area. Just her luck that Hanoi's illusion specialist, one of the few in the organization that could match her skills, would be here. Thankfully, he hasn't noticed her presence yet, clearly focused on organizing his men and constructing a illusory trap for their target. He's skilled, creating vivid illusions of walls and blocked exits in what should be escape routes, and nearly doubling the Hanoi ranks with mirror images.

But their prey isn't going down easy; more than any other, blazing violet Flames are erupting all over the neighborhood, startlingly strong and clear. They overwhelm the weaklings easily, sending them skittering back to the perimeter lines with vicious burns, if they escape at all. But the target seems panicked and confused, easily falling for the mirages that herd him into the neighborhood's center, where building give way to a little park of grass and shrubs.

For a little while, Ema believes that the target still has a chance of escape.

And then bright orange lights up the night sky, illuminating an immense creature of leathery skin and burning amber sweeping over the city with a bone-shaking roar. The dragon dives down upon the city like a meteorite, and for a brief, horrible moment, Ema catches sight of the man perched on its back.

His hair is as red as his coat is white, a porcelain mask concealing his features, and in the split second before he disappears behind buildings, descending upon the clearing where the target has been corraled, Ema knows their eyes connect.

She's been seen, the light of the fire burning away the darkness that had obscured her from above.

Lurching to her feet and ignoring her stiff joints, Ema dashes for the edge of the roof and shoots her grappling hook at the balcony of a building across the street. The running jump she takes is awkward, but it's no time for perfect form.

Behind her, amber Sky Flames are overtaking the Naples neighborhood, crashing into the violet Flames and consuming them hungrily. There's no point in risking her life by staying, not when she already knows exactly how this is going to end. Crashing through a window at the bottom of her swing and feeling the horrible rush of shattered glass, Ema fumbles for her phone. She types as she gets her feet back under her, shaking glass from her clothes and hair and nursing some nasty cuts, and only briefly measures her surroundings: some kind of lobby, with a hall leading further into the building. As she dashes for the far end, she hears shouting behind her and knows she's being pursued.

Breath coming in harsh rasps, she plugs in a recipient and hits send as she kicks down a door, all too aware of the heavy footfalls behind her.

To: ZA

From: GG 3

Hanoi have captured the Cloud Arcobaleno.

* * *

 **Den City, Japan**

 **9:27:12, June 12, 20X9**

 **Designation: Zaizen Akira**

 **Affiliation: Sol**

 **Occupation: Head of Security, Capo**

 **Flame Type: Lightning**

He checks his phone for the third time since he stepped into the Holo Room, but the screen is empty of everything but the time. There's still no new communications from Ema. Hiding his anxiety, Akira tucks his phone away back in his pocket and tries to refocus. He has more than just Ema's safety to worry about right now, considering its been over a week since the report came in and he still has nothing to show for it.

For more than a week he's been trying to establish contact with her using every available line and method, but it has all been futile. And while it's not unusual for Ema to ignore him and make him squirm, this level of evasion is unthinkable. Whatever happened in Naples, Ema had been caught up in it, and now she had gone silent.

Leaving Akira to report to his superiors with next to nothing.

And just like that, he's on a beach. Miami comes to him in a flurry of pixels and shimmering light, until he seems to be standing in the shade of a palm tree, the only refuge from the brilliant yellow sunlight. A beach chair is settled in the sand, a buxom woman lounging on it with a cocktail in one hand.

There are somethings Akira has gotten used to about his job: the killing, the spying, the holograms. He'll probably never get used to seeing his direct superior in a bikini.

"Zaizen." Queen takes a look at him over the edge of her designer sunglasses, displeased as ever. "Your report?"

Akira keeps his expression blank. "We have no new information about the situation with the Cloud Arcobaleno. The location of Hanoi's Headquarters remains unknown." It's certainly not good news, but he suppose its expected. Ema was—is—the best informant they know, and not even she had found the Hanoi's nest. All she had been able to do was place it in the region of Den City.

Queen's mouth twists down, her lipstick accentuating the harsh expression. "And the other Arcobaleno?"

Akira stands straighter. This, at least, is less damning news. Of the seven greatest hitmen in the world, the Cloud Arcobaleno was undeniably the weakest and least capable. Even though he had fallen, it was unlikely the others would follow. "The Cloud Arcobaleno must have warned the others somehow; they seem to have gone completely to ground. We have no leads on any of their current whereabouts." Wherever the other six Arcobaleno had gone, they were well hidden. The seven of the rainbow, said to be the most powerful Flame wielders of their generation, rarely encountered one another and hid even more rarely. Until Hanoi consolidated so much power, there was no need for them to hide. "It seems Hanoi is facing the same difficulties."

"No news is good news. " Queen says, the English phrase running of her tongue seamlessly. "But they already have one."

"Yes," Akira says, and the loss of both his best independent agent and the Arcobaleno she had been tracking still stings. "But I think the situation is better than we initially believed."

Queen gives him another look, severe and uncompromising. "Elaborate."

"All reports suggest that the Hanoi currently have no active Cloud Guardian, which has led me to believe that there's the possibility that they are unable to appoint a new one." Overtime, the Hanoi Second's Guardians had been phased out and replaced with the younger Third generation. Only three of the Second's original Guardians still remain active, and even their days are likely numbered. But there has been no sign of a Cloud Guardian in either generation. "I believe their Cloud Ring is missing." Rings are essential to the role of a Guardian, as the conduit of Flames and the primary activator of Flame-based weapons and skills. Any Guardian worth keeping has Flames strong enough to burn through most market rings, like those that shined on Akira's fingers. The Hanoi rings, however, are among the three sets of rings with the highest quality and longest history. They aren't just heirlooms: they're irreplaceable weapons. The loss of even a single ring from the set of seven would be devastating.

A blue, jeweled ring of similar quality and history on Queen's finger catches the light as she takes a sip from her drink.

"And what is the basis of this conclusion?" She asks, watching him with measuring eyes.

Akira swallows. He knows better than to bring this up, but he does so anyway. "The Lost Incident." The words come out steadier than he thought they would. "Ten years ago, during the culling—"

"Silence." Queen cuts him off, her voice losing its lethargy as she sweeps off her chair and advances on him. Without her clothes, he can see the fierce lines of her frame, the muscle filling out her curvaceous form. It takes all Akira's willpower not to shift on his feet and give away his discomfort. "Do not speak of matters before your time, Zaizen." She's glaring at him, and he lowers his gaze to the sand beneath his polished work shoes.

"My apologies."

Queen clicks her tongue, and he looks up to catch her gaze once more. She stares expectantly at his face. "If you truly believe this theory of yours, prove it. Find the missing Ring and retrieve it." Akira straightens further, feeling a little rush of triumph. It's a tall order, but it's the one he's been hoping for. "If whatever plans the Hanoi have for the Arcobaleno require it, then we cannot allow it to fall back in their hands." Clearly noting his well-hidden enthusiasm, Queen's mouth once again dips down and she brings a perfectly manicured hand up to her lips. Unsubtly, she kisses the ring on her finger, and is shines with rippling cyan Flames. "Failure is, of course, unacceptable."

Akira swallows, recognizing the threat. "Understood."

The beach disappears as quickly as it shimmered into sight, leaving Akira once again alone in the Holo Room.

Or at least, he's supposed to be alone.

* * *

 **Den City, Japan**

 **11:24:33, June 12, 20X9**

 **Designation: Kogami Ryoken, aka REVOLVER**

 **Affiliation: Hanoi**

 **Occupation: Underboss**

 **Flame Type: Sky**

Den City, Ryoken sometimes thinks, is a putrid blemish on the map for a place with such natural beauty. As far as modern coastal cities go, it's a gem, with incredible views and great examples of the heights of human accomplishment. But it has just as many examples of human sin; for all its technological advancements, its clean streets, and its renewable energy, Den City lives up to its name by being a den of crime, vice, and hate.

And Ryoken is expected to bring it to heel before he ascends to the headship. His first independent assignment since he was officially named the third heir of the Hanoi Famiglia. He would solidify his power here, and in turn overturn the strangling grip of the Sol Famiglia's empire. First, Den City, then the rest of Japan, until Sol was banished back to the west it came from.

It's an ambitious vision, laid out for Ryoken before he was even born. But since the start of their mission ten years ago, plenty of unexpected obstacles have arisen: rebels, vigilantes, misguided cops and lawyers. Ryoken supposes not everyone can be expected to understand their brilliant vision of a future free from technological control, and so the dissenters must be tamed and absorbed the hard way.

Today is just a routine check on the progress of the men he has constricting one of the East neighborhoods. Not something he would usually be bothered with, since it's typical grunt shit, but it gives him an excuse to escape the Headquarters. Ever since last week, when their hunt of ten years finally brought in some success and few minor injuries, the Second and the Second Guardians have been breathing down his neck. Getting out unsupervised and into the city is a welcome relief from their agitated attention, but it doesn't make the work any less dull. He lets his henchmen handle most of it, spreading them out to remind the locals exactly who protects them from Sol's tyranny, and naturally collect their rightful due. It's all very unrefined, but there's a value to be had in the old fashioned tactics; the only true way to combat a technological empire is to strike at what Wifi and data can't control: human minds and hearts.

That doesn't mean Ryoken enjoys it.

But the usual slog takes a turn for the interesting when his back meets the floor hard ; the concrete almost as unforgiving as the cold steel nipping his neck. There's a duller, throbbing pain too; his injured shoulder protesting its sudden introduction to the alley's concrete. There's the gleam of a switch knife in the bottom of his vision, but his eyes are caught the face of his assailant.

Green eyes blaze down on him, brilliant as untempered absinthe and just as intoxicating. A thrill of lust courses through his veins—a child's fascination matured into unrelenting desire.

"Don't move." The man commands. He has a cold, firm voice that matches the uncomplicated ruthless manner with which he grips his knife. His fingers on the handle are steady, not shaking at all—and oh , he has such delicate hands, elegant even as one digs through Ryoken's pockets for weapons.

He finds the pistol and the boxes and he casts them to the side, well out of reach with a look of slight distaste. Ryoken mourns the loss of them, but has to appreciate the way the man's brow furrows imperceptibly. With Ryoken apparently disarmed, the man gains confidence, and settles more firmly upon him—apparently not realizing he's sitting right on Ryoken's dick, but well, who's complaining. It's sadly not everyday he gets to be between a gorgeous man's slender thighs.

Slowly, careful not to bring any attention to the movement, he twists his ring around so it faces the inside of his palm, hiding the infamous sigil from view. There's little he can do about the tattoo on his hand, though.

The man is staring down at him balefully and speaks with a voice full of demanding disdain. "What is Hanoi doing here? What are you scum after?" Unbothered, Ryoken takes his opponent's measure: jade eyes, green and black jacket, hood pulled over his hair, and a surgical mask obscuring his face. His assailant matches the descriptions in the reports perfectly.

So, this is the infamous, dreaded Playmaker, vigilante of Japan's streets. Ryoken hadn't thought the man terrorizing his lackies would be so attractive.

"I feel like I should be asking that to you. This is our territory now." Ryoken weighs his words carefully, but let's them flow casually. Playmaker's eyes narrow, and he casts a brief glance around, obviously wary of the reminder of potential backup. Ryoken uses Playmaker's distraction to shift his hand further, but he overestimates himself. In an instant, Playmaker's free hand seizes his own in a vice grip. His hand is warm and worn, fingers rough as he drags the tattoo into view.

"Spreading like rot." Playmaker swipes his thumb over the triangle, and Ryoken feels a rush of heat going unfortunately south. The reports didn't prepare him for this. "You're important, then?" He's never been so glad to be wearing the mask, which thankfully hides what must be a look of baffled arousal.

"Only if you want me to be." Ryoken says, trying for disaffected. It comes out as breathy instead. The knife presses deeper, cutting into Ryoken's skin, as Playmaker glares down at him. Ryoken forces himself to relax against the ground. He ignores the sharp pain by focusing on the warmth of the other's hand on his own.

"Why is Hanoi here? What are you after?" He can feel blood sluggishly dripping down his neck. It's such a small cut that it's rather sexy. Ryoken's heart is pounding for all the wrong reasons. "Answer me or I'll slit your throat."

"Isn't it obvious? We're here to liberate the people here from Sol." He searches for Sol's insignia on Playmaker's clothes, but there's nothing. Spectre's suspicions about a third party's involvement were right. "I could liberate you too, if you'd like." Ryoken layers his voice with implications. It's hard to tell in the low light and under Playmaker's disguise, but there's red flushing the edges of Playmaker's face.

Sadly, Playmaker refuses to play along, with his eyes set on Ryoken's mask. His grip on the knife is steady, but his grip on Ryoken's hand loosens.

"Don't give me that bullshit. You scum are nothing but thugs." He's flustered, probably only just recognizing the compromising position they're in. And that means he's distracted.

"Got a bit of a grudge, do we?" Under his mask, Ryoken smirks, and his ring bursts into clear orange Fllame that has Playmaker flinching back with a pained yelp. But Ryoken doesn't let him go, seizing his wrist to drag him back down and knocking the knife from Playmaker's other hand with a viper-fast strike. He flips them with a firm jolt that has Playmaker underneath him, wrists pinned to the ground.

Ryoken likes this position just as much. His assailant struggles against him, and he shifts his weight forward to contain him. And, well, the resulting friction is its own perk. "If you wanted my attention all you had to do was bat those pretty eyes of yours and ask for it."

Playmaker's green eyes are wide and flickering between Ryoken's mask and his blazing ring. "Sky Flames? You're Revolver?" Ryoken appreciates how pale Playmaker goes as he realizes he was trapped under the dreaded Underboss of Hanoi.

"I'm a little insulted you didn't recognize me." Ryoken leans in to get a better look at the elusive assassin plaguing his organization. With Playmaker bucking against him, he has no hands free to pull off the mask that was in the way. If he wasn't wearing a mask himself, he could've used his mouth.

"Get off of me!" Playmaker snarls, jerking up in a rough, attempted head butt. Ryoken forced him back down with some effort. "I'm going to make you bastards pay for what you did to us!"

It's one of those days, clearly. Ryoken laughs, like Revolver would, watching the assassin's expression tense further in the face of his mockery. "You're going to need to be more specific." Misguided avengers were a dime a dozen in the Mafia. It was a little disappointing to find out the rumored Playmaker was just another fool.

At least he looks fantastic, squirming under Ryoken like a leashed beast. "After what you did to me , you dare— "

"Did I fuck you? No, that can't be it." Playmaker goes completely rigid, and Ryoken is having too much fun. "I would certainly," he let his eyes drag up and down the svelte form settled underneath him, "remember that. " Playmaker flushes fully red, eyes wide. It's a good look on him. "Though I would love to personally do some things to you right now." Ryoken pushes his leg in between Playmaker's and punctuates his words with a deliberate, slow roll of his hips.

It's just to mess with him, Ryoken reasons. To keep Playmaker off his game. Except, it feels fantastic, which probably just goes to show that Ryoken needs to get laid.

His assassin jerks forward again with a furious snarl, and the hood is left behind, revealing a crown of fiery locks. His hair looks like dancing flames, all vibrant yellow, orange and pink, and Ryoken is almost disappointed. It's a stunning look, but he would have preferred blue.

Though the autumn colors are nice too, the winter tones were so much more appealing.

"Get off of me!" Playmaker attempts to twist out of his grip, and it's a struggle to keep hold of him. He makes some odd movements with his hands, something glinting off his fingers, and suddenly there's something slicing into Ryoken's wrist. It's wire, thinner than fishing line, and it bites into his skin painfully. Reflexively, he jerks his hand away and tries to pull the wire off with the other, and Playmaker's foot lands solidly in his chest, shoving him off with a rough kick. Instead of constricting, the wire lengthens as Ryoken stumbles to his feet a meter away, and there's luminous purple light enveloping Playmaker's hands.

Cloud Flames.

Ryoken can't help but smile, even as he hooks a finger under the wire and burns it away with his own Flames. Clouds always are the feistiest, and Ryoken has always had a bit of a soft spot for that.

Even so, Ryoken wastes no time and sprints for his gun, sweeping it off the concrete. It fits back in his hand like puzzle piece clicking into place, and he raises it to his opponent with the taste of victory on his tongue.

Playmaker is back on his feet as well, his chest heaving with each harsh breath and his brow twisted with fury. His sleeve has ridden up, revealing an unusual bracelet bearing what looks like a spool of thread. The bracelet blazes with violet fire, bursting forth from a ring on Playmaker's finger.

And the whole world freezes. A shudder rakes through Ryoken's body, and instinctively he takes a step back, his aim wavering. He can't tear his eyes away from the ring.

"That's—?"

It's a silver band identical to his own, bearing the intricate crest of Hanoi: an scalene triangle constructed from six smaller triangles. The only difference being that while his triangle was entirely amber, Playmaker's was silver except for one single amethyst triangle.

Ryoken knows that ring. And he knows the one he gave that ring to would never give it to anyone else.

But there it is, alight with blazing violet flames on Playmaker's finger.

The tree facts come together in his head: Playmaker held a grudge against Hanoi, Playmaker has Cloud Flames, and Playmaker has a one-of-a-kind Hanoi ring.

"S—Six?" He hears himself say, over the roaring in his ears. Playmaker—Six?—shifts backwards, with a familiar look of alarm in his eyes, and Ryoken stumbles forward, his gun forgotten at his side. Playmaker takes another step back, and his arm snaps to the side, a fishing line complete with hook dangling from his fingertips. With one fierce slash, the hook is streaking towards Ryoken's face, and he throws up an arm in reflex.

The attack doesn't connect, and when Ryoken opens his eyes, Playmaker—Six?—is gone.

But Ryoken's mind is spinning in wild circles. Green eyes, a violet ring, a promise, revenge—

 _I finally found you again._


End file.
